Shaken Not Stirred
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: Lieutenant August Anderson was no spy, but five years ago he was hired by the CIA. They've called in his contract, and now he has to learn to swim or he'll drown. Pre-show. 2nd in my "Rookie" series, but can be read alone.
1. Dumped In

**A/N: When I finished "Close and Continuing", a friend and fellow writer told me I should try to write Auggie's rookie-days. I said I couldn't do it. Well, that was nearly three months ago, and, as you can see, I suppose I shouldn't have said I couldn't do it. It has been a long three months, not in the least because I haven't been able to visit the site for any substantial amount of time, but here it is. It is shorter than I would have liked, only five chapters, but beggars cannot be choosers. I shall post every Wednesday. **

**This story is for mandy58. Without her, there wouldn't be a story. Plus, she's a brilliant writer (if you haven't read "Collide" yet, do). **

Shaken, Not Stirred

Chapter One: Dumped In

August Anderson wasn't sure what to do. The polygraph guy had said something about waiting for an escort, but three minutes had gone by since he'd finished his final test and no one had arrived. Auggie, as he was known by near everyone who knew his name, didn't like tardiness. Either it ended in blood-and-guts or a false sense of security.

He kept his eyes from drifting to his wristwatch and continued counting. _245, 250, 255, 260, 26—_

"Anderson, right?"

Auggie forced his heart back down his throat. In the moment it took to quash his shame at being caught unaware, he surveyed the man in front of him. He was dark, not black, but a creamy toffee, a tone that, while unusual, was easy enough to classify as Middle Asian heritage. Auggie shook his hand.

"Auggie."

"Jai Wilcox. I've been assigned to show you around."

"Wilcox?" Auggie might not have been in the _official _spy game since he'd graduated from Camp Peary (AKA "The Farm"), but the name Wilcox had been at least an echo in his ear for the last five years.

"Yeah, good ole Dad." Jai turned and gestured for Auggie to follow. "Have you been stateside long?" he asked after a period of silence.

Auggie, who'd been concentrating on memorizing the way, focused his gaze back on the younger Wilcox. "Not really. A couple of weeks. Does it show?"

Jai didn't answer; he was too distracted by a passing female. "Trace," he acknowledged with a wink as they passed. "One of the perks. We can date our fellows co-workers," he said by way of explanation.

Auggie allowed himself to grin as he followed Jai through a door. He stood next to the other agent, taking in the sight before him. He'd been in busier crowds, but not many. The paths between desks were thin and they wove a web of seeming tunnels through stacks of paperwork and bureaucracy. Every desk appeared to be occupied, and the room almost buzzed with energy. It, for better or worse, strongly reminded Auggie of his few trips to the Pentagon.

"Welcome to the Department of European Affairs, the DEA. Your desk is this way."

Few heads turned as Jai, with Auggie on his tails, cut across the room to the far wall. He stopped beside a table that was pushed against the almost perfect midpoint of the stretch of grayish plaster. It was tall enough to comfortably allow its occupant to sit down, but that was the only good thing Auggie could say about it. It was boxy, barely longer than half an arm-span, and positioned in the worst possible way.

Auggie's distress must have leaked onto his expression, but Jai smirked and said, "The better you do, the better the desk."

Auggie looked at Jai. "Of course, it would be." In a place where you were sent to whichever department needed you, there had to be a way to show rank. He might not enjoy sitting at the smallest desk with his back to the entrance and his neck exposed to the rest of the bullpen, but he could understand it.

He moved his gaze off Jai and around the room. "Where's your desk, then?"

Jai revived his smirk. "In the middle of the sixth floor. Department of Asian Affairs."

Auggie didn't allow himself to acknowledge the weight in his gut that came from Jai's words. He had gone through Hell and back, survived—no, thrived—at the Farm, and as if that weren't enough, he'd completed SERE training at Fort Briggs and served his country for the last two and a half years. He could survive without a guide in a glorified office building. He plastered a smile on his face.

"How'd you get stuck leading around the newbie of another department?"

"Last to leave the briefing," Jai answered quickly. He looked at his watch before adding, "Look, I've got to go. Can you take it from here?"

Auggie wasn't sure what he was supposed to be "taking", but something about the other agent was rubbing him the wrong way more and more with every passing second. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Great. Thanks." Auggie didn't need to watch to know he barreled out of the DEA.

Auggie sat down at his new desk. Almost at once the hairs at the back of his neck rose and his attention focused behind him. He felt the gun at his back, the approach of unknown threats, the—

"Anderson!"

Auggie snapped to his feet, his knees slamming into the top of the desk with such force, he almost fell back into the chair. He ordered his heart to slow and the blush not to creep the rest of the way up his neck. He looked up in the direction of the voice. His eyes found an intimidating figure with a strong jaw and commanding stature that left no misconceptions of weakness.

"Up here, now."

Auggie gathered his wits and crossed the room toward the winding staircase where the man waited at the top. "Sir."

"Arthur Campbell, your boss. Follow me."

Auggie had always had a long stride, but Arthur was faster. Arthur led him into his office, a no-nonsense room with the same gunmetal colored walls as the rest of the department and adorned by framed medals and certificates. Arthur gestured to a chair in front of his desk and Auggie sat down on a tasteful, if hard, seat.

"You have an impressive record, Lieutenant." Auggie felt Arthur was staring him down, even though Arthur was looking down at, presumably, his file. "But it's been a while since you finished at the Farm. I see you declined going back for a refresher."

Auggie wasn't sure if that was a question or not, but he had the urge to defend his decision. "As you will see in my file, I have been on active loan to the army since the Farm. I—"

"I have your file here, Agent." Auggie closed his mouth with a silent snap. "I hope you won't regret your decision. Now, if you have any questions?" Auggie was about to ask what he was supposed to be doing, but Arthur ran him over. "Good. You can go."

Auggie didn't know what to think as he exited the office. He couldn't decide if Arthur agreed with his choice or not. Auggie stopped in front of his desk. He started at the chair, half pushed in and cockeyed.

Suddenly, he lunged and, without even noticing that the bustling bullpen had paused to watch, pulled his desk away from the wall. The feet scraped loudly against the linoleum as he turned it around so that he'd be facing the entrance.

Auggie sat down and pushed himself in. He picked up a few spilled pens before focusing his attention on the nondescript pile of paperwork that had appeared while he'd been in Arthur's office.

He didn't notice the gazes, one emanating from a pair of eyes above and one from the back of the bullpen.


	2. Accept It

**A/N: Here you go, and early on Wednesday too! Thank you to the three people that reviewed; your comments made me feel all warm inside! **

Chapter Two: Accept It

Auggie sat at the end of the bar at the tavern the techie who'd handled his one and only mission (a simple dead-drop) had suggested. The tavern wasn't very busy as it was only Wednesday, for which Auggie was grateful.

He took another swig of his beer, reflecting on the number of times he'd drunk the same type of beer with his squad buddies. It was strange to be celebrating alone. It had been a week since he'd officially joined the CIA as an agent and he was sitting alone at the end of the bar in an almost deserted tavern. If it weren't so foreign a situation to him, Auggie would have laughed at how pathetic it all was.

"Fast or slow?"

Auggie pulled his gaze from his beer to the person who'd sat down on a stool near his. Auggie recognized the man immediately. Philip Mace was the most forgotten living legend in the Agency. At the Farm, some of his techniques had become part of the curriculum, but most trainees didn't even realize he was still alive. There were rumors that he'd turned down the chance to run the whole agency to stay a field agent, but Auggie put little faith in such scuttlebutt. The only thing he was sure of was that Philip Mace had the desk in the back of the DEA, in the ideal spot for surveillance and cover. Auggie wanted that desk.

"What?" Auggie asked the old agent.

"Your first week on the job." Mace accepted his scotch with a nod to the bartender.

Auggie wasn't as surprised as he was relieved that someone had noticed. "Slow," he answered without thinking.

Mace put down his glass. "Yes, I thought you might say that. Let me guess, because you feel the powers-that-be aren't using you to their advantage." Auggie didn't have time to argue before Mace continued. "Have you considered that maybe you aren't ready?"

Auggie blanked his face, his ego, already damaged by his lack of success connecting to his fellow agents, now completely deflated. He opened his mouth only to be interrupted again.

"Case and point. If you can't remold you expression, leave it. Stoicism only makes you look dim." He gestured for a refill while Auggie comprehended his statement. When Mace next spoke, his tone was more musing. "We're at a disadvantage, you and I. We military men are taught to stand out, be noticed, but that, Rookie, is the opposite of your objective now."

Auggie's feathers were a little ruffled by the nickname, but he tried not to let it show. And yet, as ego denting as the old agent was being, Auggie couldn't help but listen. "You read my file?" Auggie had been under the impression that his personal information had been classified.

Mace looked back at Auggie. A small, wry smile appeared on his lips, and he shook his head a bit. "Where is the fun in that? I prefer to come to my own conclusions."

Auggie could understand and respect that. What he couldn't understand was the sudden curiosity in his gut. He was a confident, self-actuated Lieutenant, right? "And those are…?" Auggie hid his own shock at his mouth's betrayal by grinning around his beer bottle.

"About you? You are fresh. Definitely military. Well trained. From Illinois, I'm guessing near Chicago. You were recruited for your technical skills, and, while you weren't in command of your unit, you were never contradicted. You feel a team is more effective than a single man. I could go on, but I think that's enough for you to be getting on with."

Mace stood, finished his drink, and pulled some bills from his wallet. He left with another nod to the bartender.

Auggie blinked. He let Mace's words sink in as he finished his beer. He was still contemplating as he drove home.

~OOOOOOO~

The August Anderson that swiped his ID at the security station the next morning walked with a swaggered role. The standard suit and tie people had become accustomed to morphed into a nice shirt sans tie. He grinned at the female guard as he pocketed his credentials.

But as comfortable as he appeared to be as he made his way to his desk was as uncomfortable as he really was. Auggie tried to convince himself he was just with his buddies, but his heart could not seem to shake that original impression of the DEA being the Pentagon, and so he felt he was supposed to be in full dress uniform. He felt that his new wardrobe was casting a bad shadow on proper decorum.

"Accept it, Rookie." Mace had appeared over Auggie's left shoulder and whispered in his ear.

Auggie twisted around, cursing his moment of distraction, to respond, but Mace had already walked away. Auggie watched the older agent, both detesting and jealously admiring the way he moved—how he fit so seamlessly into this tangled contradiction. He was like James Bond. Bond had always annoyed Auggie.

~OOOOOOO~

By lunch, Auggie was almost positive his fake grin and casual attire weren't worth it. There had been a moment in the morning briefing when Auggie could have sworn Arthur had given him an agreeing nod, but the next moment he'd assigned Auggie yet another ridiculously tedious pile of threat-assessment work. Only a few more appreciative looks from passing women stopped Auggie from tucking in his shirt and putting on the tie he'd left in his desk for emergencies.

Auggie was not usually too keen on cafeterias, but the thought of spending one more moment at his desk was almost enough to make him scream. He'd found a table that allowed him a reasonably good view of the room as he chewed his dry meat sandwich.

He'd managed to draw out his sandwich for a good fifteen minutes and was hoping to get a few more out of his chips, when he noticed a familiar face making his way toward his table.

"Hey Anderson," Jai Wilcox greeted as he neared Auggie. He put his hand on the back of the chair opposite the soldier, and Auggie nodded his permission for Wilcox to sit. "How're things going?"

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Auggie answered, "Good. I'm getting into the rhythm."

"I remember my first month. I had to be backup in an exchange in Bombay as a busboy."

Auggie desperately wanted to say that he'd take being in the van, backing up a techie tailing an old granny if it meant he didn't have to spend another minute behind a stack of bureaucratic paperwork, but he was not willing to shoot himself in the foot for momentary gratification. Jai seemed to be the only person he could imitate, even if his condescension was palpable. It wouldn't do to alienate a mentor. "Yeah, I can relate."

"Get used to it!" Someone patted Jai's back, and he talked for a moment, Auggie forgotten.

Auggie didn't allow himself to feel shunted when Jai left with the, admittedly sexy, probably DAA, agent. As he made his way to the trash can to throw away his chip bag and sandwich wrapper, Auggie did have to admit that if Jai's success was based on his wardrobe, Auggie was one step closer to getting out of the office.

**A/N: Up next, Auggie gets a break and some tough love from Mace. **


	3. Suck It Up

**A/N: I know I'm late. You know how summers are-you forget the date, the time, everything. A week after graduation (yup, I'm finished with high school!) and I'm already forgetting what it is like to have a schedule (and it feels kind of good, too!). Anyway, better late than never. **

Chapter Three: Suck It Up

"Anderson."

Auggie looked up from the file he was skimming, surprised to hear his name, let alone be called by Arthur Campbell. Though he'd made an effort over the last few months to imitate Jai Wilcox's fluid casualness, and had been rewarded by two overnight exchanges (one in Switzerland, the other in Liechtenstein), Arthur had yet to address him in a briefing. He forced down some of his excitement before letting himself process what Arthur was saying.

"…will be going with Mace on this one as back up."

Auggie almost lost his cool. He hadn't allowed himself to hope that he'd be chosen to be part of the mission Arthur had spent the last fifteen minutes detailing. After all, it was a delicate assignment. It certainly wasn't a job for a rookie, even if said rookie had been doing covert ops for almost three years. "Sir?"

Arthur paused and addressed the former soldier. "You speak Italian, don't you?"

Auggie blinked. "Yes—with an accent."

"Spanish, correct?" Arthur answered his rhetorical question. "We know, just keep your mouth shut as much as possible." Arthur continued as if he'd never been interrupted. He slid Auggie and Mace another file each across the table. "You leave at 2100. Dismissed."

Everyone filed out of the room while Auggie processed the assignment. Now that he felt the blue, stamp-emblazoned file full of the information he needed to know to assist the legendary Philip Mace ensure two families signed a contract that would lead to the collapse of both their infrastructures, reality began to set in, and he realized what he was actually going to do. With Philip Mace, the man who reminded Auggie so strongly of James Bond, he half-expected a British accent every time the man opened his mouth.

~OOOOOOO~

Auggie left the Agency soon after the briefing. He unlocked his apartment and immediately sat down on the second-hand coach he'd recently acquired. He made himself comfortable before pulling out the mission details and reviewing his first official alias.

For a first alias, it wasn't too shabby. Augusto Aspesi, an Italian citizen born on August first, 1976. He was two years older than August Anderson, but their histories was similar. Almost too similar. Auggie was a little miffed. He got that he'd never truly been "undercover", but he'd been the top of his class in acting at the Farm—never once dropping his character. That hadn't, apparently, meant much after so long, though.

Auggie curbed his frustration and continued his close reading. Augusto had been born in Rome, but at the age of four, his father had moved his family to Santiago, Spain. The powers-that-be (or whatever the people who set up cover-identities were called) had left most of the rest of Augusto's life up to his employment two years ago as a personal assistant to Henry Callan (AKA Philip Mace), an internationally recognized negotiator from the U.K., open for embellishment, which helped Auggie palate the many similarities.

Auggie was just about to start gathering the necessary items, having decided what "Augusto" would need, when someone knocked on his door.

Auggie stuffed the folders under the couch in a single, smooth movement born of years in a dorm and barrack. He perked his ear against the thick door—making a mental note to install a peephole ASAP—but hearing nothing, steeled himself before sliding the door open.

"Sir?" Auggie cried as soon as he saw who was behind the heavy industrial door.

Philip Mace didn't reply with more than a nod before he pushed passed the confused agent into the apartment. He spared the space a glance only long enough to register the layout, and less than a second later was in Auggie's bedroom, eyeing his wardrobe.

Auggie, almost recovered from the man's appearance, closed the door and followed Mace into his bedroom. "What is going on?"

"I thought it would be obvious," Mace replied. He glanced critically at a dark pinstripe before shoving it back on the rack.

"You're packing my bag?" Auggie could honestly not tell which made him angrier: Mace's audacity or Mace's apparent distrust of his fashion sense. "I am very capable of picking out my own clothing!"

Mace pushed another suit aside and turned to Auggie. "This is not about you. How Augusto Aspesi looks and acts reflects on Henry Callan, which directly affects the outcome of their mission. But…" Mace sat down on Auggie's desk chair.

Auggie was a confident man who'd been out of high school long enough to know what happens to the guy who thinks he's the smartest kid in class, but Mace's cool reprimand returned him to sophomore year in senior calculus and the pain of being corrected hurt like the world was ending. He had the terrible need to prove himself, prove to his classmates that he knew the answer, that he wasn't just another wannabe. But Auggie was no longer in grade school. This was the "real-world" and in the real world ego had no place. So as much as it twisted his gut and as bad as the flavor in his mouth was, Auggie shoved it down and asked, "How should Augusto dress?"

Mace showed no sign that he recognized that he'd won, and Auggie was grateful for it. "What do you remember about disguises from the Farm?"

Another wave of that bitter taste hit Auggie's tongue. "It wasn't my favorite class," he admitted, doing his best not to glare at the older agent.

"Not surprising. Jackson couldn't keep a robot awake—there is a reason he was assigned to the Farm. Unfortunately, it is one of the most important aspects of being a good spy.

"Wardrobe 101: dress to the stereotype. Use them to sell your character. Quick—personal attaché. What is he wearing?"

Auggie answered at once; visualizing had always come easily to him. "Level of work reflected by off-the-rack and barely tailored suit. Muted colors; shoes that have been polished habitually. Stripped ties with a dark tie clip."

Mace nodded once and returned to Auggie's somewhat limited closet. He pulled out three of Auggie's suits and put them on the bed. "Like these?"

Auggie glanced over the outfits. They were all nice, but the navy was one from his first summer internship at a software company his sophomore year of college, before he'd started spending a good portion of his free-time at the gym, and a sleeve on the black pinstripe had a worn patch near the end from when Auggie had spent a full semester of college transferring digital records onto paper for a particularly paranoid-of-all-things-digital dean of admissions.

Auggie returned his gaze to Mace. "Yeah."

"Good. Pick your ties."

Though Auggie would never admit as much to anyone, including himself, by the time Mace left two hours later, having ensured that Auggie wasn't going to embarrass Henry Callan or blow the operation, Auggie felt more sure of himself than he had since he left his unit.


	4. Mental Abstraction

**A/N: I know I'm late. Again. But I wanted to watch the premiere before I posted, but what do you know, hulu had an issue. Just watched it, though, and I have to say, I think I'm officially for Annie/Auggie friendship only, at least for a while. But that has nothing whatsoever to do with this fic, so I'll let you get on with it. **

Chapter Four: Mental Abstraction

Auggie's thoughts had drifted to an old Billy Crystal film he'd once seen. In the film, Billy Crystal's character has to stand in for a mob-boss at a gathering of all the heads of the New York mafia in a run-down warehouse. When Auggie had first seen the movie while channel surfing one night, he'd thought the whole meeting-in-an-abandoned-building farfetched, but given his current position on Mace's right at a table in the middle of an old basement that smelled faintly of ammonia with an aftertaste of urine, he was rethinking his impression.

Auggie reeled his mind back in, and tried to focus on what was happening at the conference table. As a kid, Auggie had watched reruns of _Mission Impossible_, _The A-Team_, and of course, the James Bonds, but those Hollywood dramatizations of missions had left out the biggest chunk of a spy's life: the set-up. It wasn't planting mics or putting on tuxedos and ordering martinis while dancing with beautiful blondes. No, it was waiting, standing in the background, listening and watching while events unfolded, and praying a plan didn't blow up in your face.

At the moment, Auggie was watching as Mace, no Callan, prodded the two biggest criminal families from North and South Italy into an alliance. If the loose alliance were to, say, end in a CIA takeover, with luck and a bit of interference, the two families would turn in on each other, crumbling their infrastructures. At least, that was the plan. But from where Auggie was standing, things were not looking good.

Six days into formal negotiations and Auggie was beginning to think only the mutual death of a pair of star-crossed lovers would bring the Monteleones and the De Lucas together long enough for the CIA to get them to destroy each other.

That being said, Auggie had to admire Mace's abilities. It was painfully obvious why he'd both been given the opportunity multiple times to head a division and why he had, just as many times, refused a promotion; the man was made for espionage. From the moment Auggie had met him at the airport in DC a week ago, Philip Mace had been Henry Callan, from his treatment of Augusto (stereotypically dominating) to the slickness of his demeanor. Speaking Italian with a Scottish accent that, while strong enough to show he was not a native speaker, was still clearly legible, Callan commanded the attention of the room whenever he spoke. He practically oozed experience, and even the heads of the two crime-families had to respect him.

Auggie slid his eyes over the other people in the room, his shrewd gaze searching for any sign of trouble as covertly as he'd ever been. The families were sitting on opposite sides with Callan and Auggie, or more correctly, Augusto, at the head. On the left side were the Monteleones, with their patriarch, Alfonso Monteleone, sitting closest to Callan. Alfonso was a gruff, but shrewd leader, a description that could not be applied to his first-born son and heir, Primo, who sat next to him. Across from Alfonso, with a stout, no-mercy demeanor, sat Celso De Luca. Celso's heir was also his first son, but Massimo, unlike Primo, actually appeared to be a worthy successor to his father's empire. Various advisors or bodyguards (Auggie wasn't sure which as they rarely got a word in edgewise) occupied all the seats further down the table. When the debate got too tedious, such as now, Auggie entertained himself by hypothesizing their purposes.

Callan flicked his wrist and Augusto reanimated, readying for a quick request for a document or perhaps, as had occurred once or twice, an order to refill his "boss'" glass, but Callan seemed unaware of his motion. Auggie allowed Augusto to slouch slightly once again, while cursing his moment of mental abstraction. Mace shouldn't have had to pull him out of his thoughts; he had to remember to pay attention—sooner or later there'd be a breakthrough and he didn't want to miss it.

~OOOOOOO~

As he had "suggested" on the plane, Augusto walked a pace behind Callan as they all exited the building. Alfonso had just passed the threshold, having stayed behind to consult one of the advisors, when Augusto saw it—a flash of black, stark against the tiled rooftops and mid-afternoon sky in the corner of his vision. Without thought or reason or even a second of hesitation, the two-dimensional Augusto Aspesi had been pushed aside by Lieutenant August Anderson. He might have heard the swoosh of the bullet as it jetted passed his ear or the muffled grunt of a seventy year old Italian mafia leader as a hundred and eighty pounds of rock-solid muscle smashed him to the ground, but there was no registration, only the sound of blood thundering through his veins and the acrid taste of adrenaline on his tongue.

Then the world turned back on and Auggie could hear gunshots and someone cursing in deep Italian. He instinctively curled around the thing that had broken his dive, his need to protect outweighing his call to fight.

After an eternity, Auggie's brain registered someone speaking, and his thoughts reacted, his mind falling into the Italian as if it were English.

"What was that?" Don Monteleone cried.

Auggie jumped up, his gut telling him the danger had passed. He was about to reply, say something, anything to explain his actions, but one of Alfonso's men had already answered.

"Sir! Into the car, please, sir!"

Auggie watched, still in a haze, as the Monteleone entourage stuffed him and his son into the waiting cars, almost two minutes too late for the action to have been effective. The De Lucas' security must have been more prepared because, Auggie noticed, they had already driven away.

Auggie very nearly jumped when he heard the English in his ear. "That was stupid, boy."

It took a moment for him to realize what Mace—no longer Callan—had said, but when he did, he spun to look at him. "Why?"

Mace gave him a glare that practically spelled out the need to get away from the scene _now_, before he set off down the street, leaving Auggie to follow.

~OOOOOOO~

Mace led Auggie through the streets, never sparing the younger agent more than a look until they'd sat down at a table in an outdoor café in the old part of the city where few, if any, possible-onlookers could speak enough English to eavesdrop effectively. Only then did Mace address him, all trace of Henry Callan gone.

"Do you know what you just did?"

Auggie knew that sound, and his heart sped up, while he secured his familiar mask of stoicism, or at least, tried to. Mace's biting, "What did I say about that expression?" made him pause, and he let it shatter, the anger that might have once landed him with insubordination getting free reign on his face.

"I just saved Don Monteleone's life."

"What you just did was blow the operation." Mace's voice was frigid, but Auggie could feel the hot frustration radiating from his whole persona. He was almost afraid to reply. His brain struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for his actions—preferably something that didn't make him sound petty—but his mouth had no such qualms.

"We _wanted_ him dead?" Auggie knew that his government used snipers—one of his squad mates was one, after all—but Auggie couldn't comprehend the logic. "We are supposed to be getting them to agree!"

"Which seemed to be going well, didn't it?" Mace shot back, sarcasm dripping from his words like water from an icicle in the middle of summer. He suddenly relaxed into his seat, which threw Auggie for a greater loop than his first statement.

Mace cupped his hands under his chin. "Removing Alfonso would force Primo to take his father's place."

"What makes you so sure he'd continue the negotiations?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Auggie knew the answer.

"Don't tell me I need to explain everything to you," Mace replied.

For the first time since Auggie had accepted Mace's help packing, Auggie felt the sting of underestimation. He was about to respond with a scalding reply that would detail the whole psychology of the Monteleone family starting with the weak and insecure heir, when he noticed the slight lift of Mace's left cheek and the infinitesimal curving at the corner of his lip. Mace was joking with him? Auggie didn't know how to react, only his squad brothers joked with him nowadays, and besides, this was Philip Mace, badass spy, not a _friend_. He opened his mouth, still deciding on a reply, but Mace beat him to it once again.

"But never mind. What's done is done, and perhaps there is still a way to salvage this operation."

Auggie's heart leaped for a millisecond and then crashed when he remembered _why_ they'd been sent to crash the two businesses: one of them, possibly both, was at least funneling money into the wrong side of the war in Iraq. That pipeline had to be shut down before more of his friends…Auggie threw up a wall in his mind, stopping his past from rearing its ugly head once again. He commanded his thoughts back to Mace and kept his voice steady. "How?"

"You just saved Alfonso Monteleone's life."

Auggie wanted nothing more than to say "so what?", but he'd had enough of Mace's disappointment, real or otherwise, to last him through the rest of the month. As it turned out, Mace needed no prompting.

"Tomorrow, when we have our next meeting, let more of August out." Mace anticipated Auggie's argument and addressed it quickly. "You've been insignificant enough not to be given much thought, but I guarantee you're going to be inspected now. Let them see more of the soldier."

"What will that do?" Auggie asked before he could stop himself.

"Set up your cover. When the Company makes its move, you'll need it." Mace stood and put down a few euro for the coffee a waitress had brought out before they'd started talking.

Auggie stood as well, twisting to avoid a chair as he followed Mace back onto the street. "What?"

"Augusto Aspesi is going to tip the scales."

Auggie stopped mid-stride, too blindsided to even attempt to cover his shock. Assuming Mace managed to get the families to a partnership—who was he kidding? Philip Mace never fails—he, August Anderson, "rookie" spy, was going to be the sleeper who corrupted the empire from inside. Just when he had mustered the control to continue walking, he froze again. "How the hell am I going to do that?"

Mace hailed the only taxi in their vicinity and didn't respond.

**A/N: I thought you should know, you won't be getting another chapter next Wednesday as I have to go to this orientation camp. I'll try and update as soon as I get back, but I'm re-writing the next chapter, so it might not be posted until the following week. **


	5. Consequences of the Red Pill

**A/N: Hey! I'm back from camp!**

Chapter Five: Consequences of the Red Pill

Auggie tossed over to his right side and curled around an extra pillow. The green numbers of the hotel alarm clock lent the room an eerie, icy quality that didn't help quiet Auggie's roaring thoughts so that he could finally drift off to sleep.

Mace had refused to continue the conversation they'd started at the small café, and by the time they'd reached their hotel, Auggie had managed to distract his mind by thinking about checking the surveillance he'd set up around their suite and getting all the information Callan had insisted he required to patch up the negotiation. But now Callan had everything and he'd reviewed all the footage. He was simply waiting for sleep.

Auggie closed his eyes and imagined crushing all his thoughts about his impending mission into a ball and lighting said ball on fire. He focused on making the flames climb higher and consume every fragment of thought, and slowly he felt himself drifting into the abyss.

~OOOOOO~

_BOOM!... "I said silence, damn it!"… "Get out of there!" …charcoaled skin…bloody, lost, burned…POW, POW, POW, POW…BOOM!... "It's an easy one…"… "We've been compromised!"… "Let's get these fuckin' bastards!"… emancipated, mangled… "…just a boy."… "Get in, get out!" … fire—red hot, burning, bloody… "Get out!" … crimson pool, soaked… "Down! Get down!"… "…In and out…" …POW! POW! POW!..._

Auggie jerked awake, adrenaline flooding out of every pore. His heart was thumping so hard, it hurt. He forced his breathing to steady, begging his heart to slow. He brought his hands up to his face to wipe away the beads of sweat, and felt the cold edge of his knife against his cheek. He looked down and for the first time registered how his fingers were practically strangling the handle. He glared at his fist, willing it to open. His fingers were white, the palm-side flat, when he finally got them open.

The Technicolor, surround-sound memories of things he'd seen, heard, done, had infected his bedroom; he had to get out.

Auggie crept out of his tiny room into the posh sitting area of Henry Callan's suite. His eye caught his reflection in the ornate mirror across from his door.

The little light pouring in from the quarter moon outside the large window made his skin ghostly pale. His hair, longer than it had ever been before, curled in a damp nest around his head. Auggie leaned closer to his image, his gaze focused into his eyes. He demanded his eyes to shake the haunted look, but to no avail.

Auggie collapsed on the settee, his hands pressed against his temples. The memories kept coming, replaying, jumbled and out-of-sync. He wished for nothing more than his prescription of sleeping pills tucked away in his sock drawer back in D.C.

Suddenly Auggie froze; he'd heard someone move in Mace's/Callan's bedroom. Auggie shrank further into the shadows, and prayed the experienced super-agent wouldn't see him as Mace made his way over to the kitchenette and put the kettle on the small burner.

Auggie watched as Mace brewed tea in the coffeepot. Neither spoke, even when Mace brought over the hot liquid. He handed Auggie his cup, and Auggie grasped it with both hands, his right hand shaking too hard to hold it alone.

The chamomile steam drifted up his nose and drowned his memories. He chanced a look at the old spy before his eyes returned to the jade tea. He took a sip, reveling in the way it burned his throat, the sting bringing him to the present.

They sat in silence, the darkness shading them from each other. The last gulp tasted bitter. Mace refilled his cup without waiting for Auggie to ask.

"Where did you get the tea?" Auggie inquired, his voice hoarse. He wasn't sure if he were getting a response or if he even wanted one.

"My bag."

Auggie nodded. Silence fell again.

"It doesn't get better."

Auggie looked up, surprised. The mandatory shrink, the doctor at the VA, his father, everyone had said it would.

"So I bring my own chamomile," Mace added.

Auggie tried to smile, but couldn't quite muster the emotion. The whole experience felt almost surreal—sitting in the dark, drinking tea with a living legend.

"And when in doubt, sex works wonders," Mace commented after another long pause.

Auggie actually did manage a small snort at that, but then he sobered again. "Yeah, for the night."

Mace shrugged. "Sometimes that's all you need to get back up in the morning."

Auggie blamed his next statement on the tea and subtly emboldening pre-dawn shadows. "What if you need more than just a band-aid?"

It took a long time for Mace to reply. When he did, his voice was courser, but in a strange way, more _real _than Auggie felt. "Our job isn't glorious, no matter how many bad guys we catch, lives we save, or movies they make. Sometimes it downright sucks, but we are the poor bastards who signed up for this. We took the red pill."

"I know." Auggie stared at the particles of leaves left in his cup until they spun and blurred in front of his eyes. "We just have to drink chamomile and have lots of meaningless sex, right?"

"And watch our backs."

Auggie felt the sudden need to change the subject. The atmosphere was becoming too soft—he needed to maintain his distance. He knew all too well what emotions do to an operation. Besides, men don't talk about their feelings, especially when their confidant is also their immediate "superior".

"Do you think they'll want to meet again?" Auggie asked without waiting the mandatory time for Mace's words to fully reverberate.

Mace put down his tea, looking to the world as though he weren't as relieved to be away from the previous conversation as Auggie. "Of course. They have too much to lose. Mark my words, at 0900, we'll be picked up by a black town car and driven to a new location to resume negotiations."

"How can you be so sure they'll still want Henry Callan?" Auggie wasn't sure when he'd decided to actually teasethe senior agent, but it felt good.

Mace recognized what Auggie was doing and stood up. He gave him a slight smile. "I would try to get another couple of hours of sleep if I were you."

Auggie watched from the chaise longue as Mace retired into his bedroom. He poured the last bit of tea left in his cup down his throat, cringing slightly at the acrid flavor, before following his example.

He was shutting his bedroom door when his gaze once again fell on his reflection in the mirror. His hair was still twisted into a rat's nest, and his skin was still ghostly pale, even though the soft grayness of dawn had replaced the moonlight, but much to Auggie's surprise, his expression was what he could only call serene.

Auggie made a note to add chamomile to his shopping list.

**A/N: **I have a small request for you: could you not mention any episodes passed the second of this season? I only get the episodes from Hulu and there's a 30 day delay. It's killing me, but I don't want to risk any spoilers that might destroy my enjoyment. Just a little heads-up, please? Thanks! ****


	6. Ready or Not

Chapter Six: Ready or Not

Just as Mace had said, the morning after Alfonso Monteleone's botched assassination the negotiations had resumed with only a little more suspicion on both sides of the table. Auggie had been a little more than apprehensive that Mace would bring up their conversation at first, but as the days turned to months, it became less and less probable.

In fact, the only sign that anything had changed was that Mace's criticisms, while still as direct as they always had been, had evolved passed showing up at Auggie's door to make sure he packed correctly. Now Auggie would most likely arrive at his new desk at the very front of the bullpen and find an Italian crossword and a silent order for him to solve it, as he had more than once over the last few months. They'd also begun to spend their lunch breaks together—or at least, eat at the same time and share a table or, every once in a while, a park bench—sometimes speaking about an operation, but mostly just eating. Either way, it had become the little "suggestions", rather than the big gestures, and Auggie was no longer envious, or really enthralled by bitterness, every time he laid eyes on (or heard yet another story about) Philip Mace.

So Auggie was understandably offended when Mace had gestured for him to follow him to a bar half-an-hour out of Baltimore to "practice".

"In less than a week you will become Augusto Aspesi for who knows how long."

"I know and I've been—" Auggie tried to argue, but as usual, Mace had already anticipated his response and prepared an appropriate rebuttal.

"There is more to a cover than the know-how. For the mission you are about to undertake you need more than just that two-dimensional shell you paraded for a while. Augusto Aspesi should not be just an alias; he needs to be a _life_."

In the shadows cast by the dim lights above their heads and the steady beating of music and fifty-plus people crammed into a room with alcohol and the prayer of companionship, Mace appeared even more covertly omniscient. Auggie felt he was talking to some god—if gods hung out in bars, lived on meaningless one-night stands, and could shoot a gun.

"It's time for a test-drive," Mace took a sip of his favorite scotch and twitched his head, quickly adding, "of Augusto Aspesi one-point-oh."

"Two-point-oh," Auggie corrected automatically.

~OOOOOO~

Auggie stood, charting the path of least resistance to the bar and trying to convince his consciousness that Mace was right, that this was necessary. Buffered by the knowledge that it would do him good, he coxed Augusto Aspesi into his being, starting with his walk (a slumped, less assuming gait) and, by the time he reached his targeted barstool, the thick, charming accent of a first-generation, off-the-tarmac Italian.

"Glass of Merlot, signore," he ordered, speaking as loudly as he could without being too overt.

"You French?" the bartender asked as he wrenched the cork out of the bottle. "We don't get too many requests for red wine 'round here."

"Italiano," Augusto replied, his eyes scanning his neighbors, gauging his options. The bartender started to say something about his cousin having a friend who'd visited Venice, but thankfully for Augusto, he was called to fill another drink at the other end of the bar, and so Augusto was spared.

Augusto took a sip of his wine and decided it was all right, if not good. As part of Auggie's preparations, Mace had "suggested" he learn to identify and describe wine (he'd stated something about the stereotype, once again) and Augusto had done it now without a second thought. He let the after-flavor permeate his taste buds as he narrowed his choices.

Once, it had not been unusual for Auggie to take a couple of walks-of-shame a week, but that was before. Those had been his college years when he wanted to refute the stereotype that MIT students didn't get any "action"; his years after college during training when he was assigned as the tech-guy and he felt he had to prove that he wasn't just a nerd who should carry a squirt gun; and his post-op periods when intercourse was the only really normal thing he could do. Those years were over. Despite what Mace had told him all those months ago, he'd managed to convince himself that he had no time for womanizing, what with the higher-ups doubting his abilities, the ever-growing reams of paperwork, and the sudden challenge of being a black-op soldier in a civilian world. But Augusto was not Auggie—he was as innocent as the man who'd boarded the army transport that first time.

The noise of the room lulled for a bit and Augusto caught a snippet of conversation. His keen hearing zeroed in on the woman's voice. Without showing any sign of comprehending she and her friend were talking about him—the friend trying to convince her to strike a conversation with him—he eavesdropped.

As casually as a snake sunning, he turned and glanced at the two women.

The best friend was in a steady relationship, if her steadfast determination to get her friend a date was anything to go on, and for the better. She had mousy brown hair that frizzed around her head and plain features with a heart shaped face—not at all Augusto's type. Her victim, on the other hand, wore a hint of raspberry-toned lipstick that complemented her lush, bewitching coloring. Augusto had found his target.

He expertly spun off his stool and approached the table, a hint of a smile decorating his lips.

"You are Romanian, yes?" Augusto asked. Auggie was more partial to the more direct flirtation, but August Anderson was not the personality in charge.

She glanced at her friend. "On my mother's side. They were gypsies who left before the first world war. How did you know? Surely those genes have been watered down by—"

"Why don't you sit?" her friend interrupted. Augusto's smile widened and he sat on the only other seat. "I'm Susan and this is Katrina."

"Augusto Cortinio Aspesi," he replied graciously. He made a split-second decision and decreased his accent by a notch.

"Where in Italy are you from?" Katrina asked, her confusion forgotten with a swift glare from Susan.

"In a small, ah, I think you say district? No…" Augusto struggled to find the word for a second before moving on. "Roma."

"Rome is beautiful. I spent a semester in Florence," Katrina replied.

Augusto brightened and his smile freshened. "Sì, but its beauty is a much pallid comparison."

A hint of red graced Katrina's features.

Susan looked between the two of them. Making up her mind but failing to be subtle, she looked at her watch and asked Katrina if she was okay to get home. She didn't wait for a reply before blowing her best friend a goodbye kiss and waving to Augusto. He pretended he didn't see her mouth "good luck!" to Katrina as she left.

A bit of Katrina's spunk dissolved when Susan cleared the exit, but Augusto was rebuffed. He turned up the charm Auggie had perfected so long ago.

They were leaving the bar—where they were going still undecided—when Augusto reached into his jacket pocket to pay the tab and his fingers clasped around an unfamiliar card of plastic. He took it out and a strange feeling bubbled up from his gut into the back of his throat as he read the note, beautifully transcribed in Mace's smooth, cursive Italian. _Room 734 across the street. If you keep it up through the night, you are ready. _

~OOOOO~

In the same dark, forgotten corner of the tavern, Philip Mace watched his chosen protégée. His intent green-grey stare focused on the man he'd spent ten-plus months prying out of his self-made shell. He leaned back into his chair, his gaze unwavering as August confronted his alias in a silent, unconscious battle. For a moment, his breath hitched while his student fought against his instincts, but then air rushed into his lungs and a small, self-satisfied grin, hidden behind the half-full glass of scotch, appeared as Mace caught the instant when August and alias molded together to form a three-dimensional Augusto Aspesi.

As he stared, a singularly unfamiliar emotion, a warm sort of prickly sensation, crashed over him in waves. He saw Augusto flirt, heard as he spoke in broken cadence, felt his student take the final step toward becoming a master.

Long after the ice had melted and the last dredges of liquor had been sucked from the glass, Mace sat at his table, his thoughts free for what felt like the first time in a hundred years. Had he really been here for so long? So much had changed—nothing was the same. The iron fist of the Cold War had crumbled; the Agency was getting weak…

Mace looked back at the table that hours before had been occupied with the next generation, and part of him was soothed. There would be someone strong, someone great, someone who could pass on the essence of his country after he left.

"Would you like another?"

There were only a few people remaining in the tavern, Mace suddenly realized. How long had he been there? He looked down at his watch before addressing the overworked waitress. He pursed his lips slightly, subtly shaking his head. "No, no, I'm done."

**A/N: Well, there you have it. No, this story will not have Auggie's mission in Italy. This was never meant to be an action fic. And considering the fact that it took my Creative Writing class and I nearly an hour to come up with the basic pit-two-families-against-each-other plot, and now I'm alone, I doubt I'll be able to come up with a good enough story-line for the sleeper mission. (If you wish to know how the mission turns out, read "Close and Continuing" or, for a less in-depth mention, "Just Another Monday". )That being said, I have had a suggestion to make this pre-series, semi-canon, set of stories a series. I will tell you, however, if I do find the inspiration to write the mission and more, it will be posted within the next few weeks. If I don't, then don't expect more. Why? Because I leave for my student exchange in Belgium in six weeks! I'll be gone for a year, so there is an excellent chance this is the last fanfic you'll see from me in a very long time, if ever. If that's true (or not, either way), I want to thank, once again, mandy58, girlwithoutfear, Beth-Geek Chick, JJ Rust, and everyone else who has made my journey on this site so meaningful, either by reviewing, reading, editing, advising, or just telling me to get my butt moving and write/post. Truly, my writing, my self-image, everything, is ten times better because of you. **

**Au revoir pour maintenant!**

**Comic.**


End file.
